


Mountain of light

by lightningwaltz



Category: Padmaavat (2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Differences, Edging (slightly), Huddling For Warmth, Loyalty, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Riding, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: “You don’t want me to be feared,” Malik says.“Oh, I want you to be feared. But first I want people to underestimate you up until the moment you slit their throat.”[Post-canon: Malik and Alauddin grappling with the way power can change relationships]
Relationships: Alauddin Khilji/Malik Kafur
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Mountain of light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stelleappese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Stelleappese!
> 
> So long story short, your fandom promo post finally got me to watch this movie. I enjoy the visual flair of all SLB movies, but I kept putting this one off. But then I read your line about Malik immediately killing for Alauddin and I was like /heart eyes emoji??? And so I saw the movie, added it to my offers list, and was pretty thrilled to get assigned your letter!
> 
> I ended up being really curious about what their relationship would look like after the movie, especially after I did additional research. It feels like Malik turning out to be _such_ an amazing strategist and general would be bound to introduce an interesting dynamic between them. Alauddin covets everything out there that's amazing, but he already has Malik. Buuut since Alauddin also can't be satisfied, I thought it would be interesting if he kind of tied himself up in knots and ended up perceiving Malik as unobtainable in some hard to determine way. i.e. Malik's genius is something he kind of wishes is something tangible that he could touch. 
> 
> Like the movie, historical events here are a bit jumbled. I also took an attempted assassination of Alauddin and had Malik nearly die in that for Reasons. I think it's not 100% certain Alauddin had possession of the Kohinoor but he does in this fic because it fits the logic of the movie okay.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy Stelleappese! Thank you for the great fandom promo and letter!
> 
> Content note stuff: This is a fic about pretty unapologetic war lords. This takes place in quiet moments in between battle so the brutality isn't lingered on but it does get alluded to. Malik being a slave is discussed pretty frankly too.

Rajasthan continues to reject Alauddin. Not only its leaders, but the landscape as well. 

Winters in this region are overly amiable for one used to navigating steppes. Alauddin is accustomed to enormous flat planes that leech the warmth out of anything after sunset, even in summer. Returning now to Delhi, he should be flush with his successful campaign in Ranthambhor. Instead, he’s haunted by the pleasant weather of the nights. Perhaps the flames of Mewar still bake the earth every time Alauddin sets foot here. 

Finally, a night comes when they can see their breath on the cool night air. 

Relieved, Alauddin orders Malik to sleep in the same tent as him. This is for practical purposes, only; he requires the warmth of another body, the warmth of someone he knows will never stab him. They’ve never lain together quite like this, and Alauddin finds himself very aware of the heat generated by their intertwined limbs. By contrast, his nose is like an icicle that has been attached to his face. Alauddin falls asleep wondering if he should order Malik to kiss his ears to thaw the cold blood within them. 

In the morning, he realizes he’s never seen Malik’s sleeping face. The man is far too industrious to ever sleep in Alauddin’s presence. Most people appear peaceful and innocent in this state. No so Malik. He seems deep at thought, even now. Alauddin runs his fingers over the thought lines that crease Malik’s forehead. Those were obtained in service to Alauddin just as much as any scars of war. 

Malik’s eyes open slowly as Alauddin’s fingers slide their way down the bridge of his nose. He says nothing while Alauddin traces the shape of Malik’s lips. 

“Did I keep you warm, Sultan?” he asks, when Alauddin cups the side of his face. “I somehow doubt it. Your fingers feel cold.” 

Alauddin pinches Malik’s cheek. He goes about this lightly at first, and then he digs his fingers in when Malik has the audacity to grin. 

“Yes, my hands are cold. So are my ears.” 

“I can assist with that,” Malik says, his tone neutral. He’s always offering such things, and Alauddin is always smiling and denying him. 

“If you _must_ ,” Alauddin says, just for the pleasure of the seeing Malik blink in surprise. He'll stare down arrows and swords without a single hint of fear, but this takes him aback.

Not for long. Malik has always been so adaptable, so quick to grasp onto opportunity. He presses his lips to the upper part of Alauddin’s ear, sucking so gently it’s hard to remember all of Malik's glorious butchery on the battlefield. Warmth floods through Alauddin, but in regions far south of his face. 

“ _Both_ ears are cold, Malik. I know you’re better at listening than that.”

At first there’s a sigh. Then Malik withdraws and places both hands flat against the sides of Alauddin’s face. Suddenly everything is muffled, like when he sinks down into his bath. He feels similarly breathless now, and can’t decide if he likes it. He just knows he wants _more_ of whatever this is. 

“Are your lips cold, too?” Malik asks. Alauddin can barely hear the question. 

“Yes. Do something about it.” 

Alauddin can’t remember the last time he really took his time with kissing. Could have been months, could have been years. He indulges in Malik now. At first he enjoys those cold-chapped lips, and that clever tongue. Then he notes that every moment seems calculated to produce pleasure. 

He pushes Malik onto his back, and pins his hands down onto the ground. He wonders if the fabric of the tent is chafing his wrists. 

“Are you this way with everyone, hmm?”

“There’s been no one since I was given to you,” Malik says. _You should know this_ his narrowed eyes say.

Alauddin bites Malik’s neck for that, and delights in the sensation of someone wriggling below him. “You’re trying to please your Sultan, and that’s admirable. I know you’ve wanted this for years, though. Take advantage of this mood I’m in. Take what you want.” 

Malik goes very still, but doesn’t seem particularly disturbed. “A slave knows how to want things. He doesn’t know how to take things.” 

Alauddin taps his fingers against the bruise he left on Malik’s skin. “What about when you first killed for me?” There have been many nights where he lay awake pondering the unexpected thrill of that moment. “You took their lives with a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“There’s a reason most pleasure slaves aren’t allowed to kill. You’re the only man I’ve known who’d allow me that privilege.” Malik somehow jerks his hands free, and then pulls Alauddin down into another kiss. This one is rougher, wilder. For a moment, Alauddin thinks he wouldn’t mind meeting his death at Malik’s capable hands. 

Then Malik carefully – but decisively – pushes Alauddin away. “We have to leave soon.”

Alauddin grabs a handful of Malik’s hair and tugs. He wants to draw out a whimper, but he’s unsuccessful. 

“I’m the sultan. We leave when I say. You know that.” 

Malik sits up, and Alauddin feels that something ineffable is dissipating, slipping between his fingers. 

“We can leave when you say, yes.” 

The two of them gaze at one another for a long time. It’s not a look shared between lovers. Instead, they tend stare just like this just before splitting up in battle. Alauddin gets a pit in his stomach every time this happens. This is not due to fear; he’s always sure Malik will return to him alive. Instead, he’s envious of the way the enemy gets to see Malik’s genius at work. He’s envious of every single person who gets their skull caved in by Malik. 

“In Delhi, then.” Alauddin concedes. “In Delhi we will have all the time we could possibly need.”

“We will.” 

Alauddin flicks his fingers against Malik’s shoulder in a somewhat juvenile gesture. “You know what I mean,” he says, even though he’s not actually sure what he means. Somehow he’s certain that Malik does. “Now get out of here and tell the camp to get ready.” 

His sulky tone ends up being contradicted by his actions. Alauddin digs out his own rich overcoat and tucks Malik into it. The sight is strangely endearing, and so Alauddin smacks a kiss on Malik's forehead. 

Alauddin will remember the following sight for the rest of his life, even when other memories fade; Malik, in Alauddin’s coat. Malik turning back from the tent flap to give Alauddin a smile he’s never seen before. 

Then he leaves. 

Soon after, there’s a sensation in the air like the silence between thunder and lightning. Alauddin drops to his feet and puts his ear against the ground. Although the sound is muffled by fabric he notices the telltale vibration of horse hoofs. 

Moments later, unfamiliar voices surround the camp. There's riot of shouting, and unfamiliar voices proclaiming their delight over capturing the sultan. Alauddin bursts outside where he’s greeted by an exhilarating and terrible sight. Malik wields a stool, guarding himself from a barrage of arrows. There are a few in his arm, and he's staining the ground with blood. The overcoat twirls around him. At one point Malik bludgeons someone in with his makeshift shield, and the sound resonates through Alauddin like a drumbeat. Interrupting this is like interrupting a master dancer or musician, but Alauddin throws himself into the fray anyway. 

“He's harder to catch than me,” Alauddin says, before sending a blade into some poor fool’s heart. 

When combat-fervor burns out, Alauddin notices that Malik he lies motionless and pale on the ground. His chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm and an arrow shaft protrudes out of his shoulder. There’s a halo of blood outlining his upper body. Alauddin can’t tear his eyes away from the sigh, even though he should be looking at all the other bodies and determining the allegiances and goals of his enemies. Instead, he crouches down and ascertains that Malik still has a pulse.

Alauddin works his mental equations, shifting the ledgers this way and that. As his men watch, he lifts Malik up, cradling him in his arms. Blood smears his garments, some of it dripping down onto his bare feet.

“You,” he gestures at one man. “You are going to investigate who ordered this attack.” Alauddin has his guesses but they feel very far away right now. He pitches his voice louder, while Malik stirs and groans. “I was grievously injured in this attack. No one else. I will parade through Delhi with your head in my hand if I hear rumors that anyone else was wounded.” 

All of his soldiers are canny. They have to be to have lasted in Alauddin’s service this long. Therefore he doesn’t look to make sure they’ve understood his words. 

He has other priorities right now. Alauddin tears that overcoat away, along with the rest of Malik’s clothing. 

“Well, now you will get a great deal of time with me in this place.” Malik’s voice is hoarse. Alauddin covers his mouth. "Since I won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

“Don’t talk. You’ll bleed out faster.” 

Alauddin cleans and stitches up Malik’s wounds. He never learned how to read, but he speaks the language of blood, muscle, and bone. This is the only kind of literacy he needs, although he becomes lightheaded when he notices that the arrow nearly pierced an artery. 

Malik slips back down into unconsciousness, and it’s hard to rouse him when the time comes to feed him broth. He grows ill as day slips into night, shivering mightily even though sweat pools in his clavicles. Alauddin wipes it away and piles every blanket on top of Malik. 

After that, there’s nothing he can do but keep vigil. He grabs onto Malik’s hand and squeezes it so hard he’s probably leaving bruises on that calloused palm. 

_I forbid your death._

Alauddin doesn’t know if that order is meant for Malik or for fate. All he knows for sure is that he’s jealous of Malik’s fever. The sickness utterly possesses Malik’s body in a way no human can. 

A harsher dawn emerges, but Malik is only aware of it as a lightness peeking through the fabric of the tent. Malik shifts around in his nest of blankets and meets Alauddin’s eyes. 

“Who did it?” Malik asks like he’s had a gag in his mouth for days and this is the most important question in the world. 

“Some nephew of mine,” Alauddin says. In the middle of the night someone had come to the tent to tell him. He doesn’t remember who, he doesn’t remember the precise words that were used.

“I’ll kill him.” Malik sits up and Alauddin pushes him back down. 

“We’ll make an example of him in a few days. Don’t get so excited.” 

“Why did you spread a rumor that you were attacked instead of me?”

“Two reasons.” Alauddin lies down on the ground next to Malik. There are no blankets left and he can feel stones digging into his spine. “Anyone who survives an attack like that is impressive. That reputation suits me.”

“You don’t want me to be feared,” Malik says. 

“Oh, I want you to be feared. But first I want people to underestimate you up until the moment you slit their throat.” 

Malik’s eyes drift closed and he sees to doze a while. Unlike the previous morning he looks content, like a cat resting in a beam of light. 

“Send me out for your next campaign, then,” he says, abruptly. 

“Eh?” Normally Alauddin would shake Malik a little, trying to rattle an explanation out of him. He’s not going to risk opening his wounds now, though. 

“My logic is sound,” Malik says. “You can stay and set up that system of spies that you keep talking about. I can go and steal victory from some king that’s bound to underestimate me.” 

It’s a genius idea, really. 

And yet… 

“You will still need to recover.” 

“Yes.” 

“And then we will have to make a lot of memories together before I send you on your way.” 

Malik laughs even though it seems to cause him pain. “There’s no way I could forget you.”

*

After every successful campaign, Malik is welcomed to Delhi with a great deal of fanfare. He enjoys parading the kingdom’s newly acquired wealth and watching the nobility’s face twist in consternation. 

The sultan always has a private welcome for him as well. Malik enjoys that even more. 

Alauddin cups the diamond in his hands as thought it’s as delicate as a baby bird. The gem is the size of a large egg. 

“They called it the Kohinoor,” Malik says. “You can change its name, of course.” 

“Giving _me_ permission to do things now, are you? Your military successes have made you bold.” Alauddin doesn’t sound all that perturbed. His thumb strokes one of the smoother edges of that diamond. 

“My apologies.” Malik’s contrition is a formality more than anything else. In response, Alauddin just shakes his head.

Many princes and emperors would raze cities for a diamond half that size. Malik had safeguarded it during his journey back to Delhi, trusting it to no one else. That’s why he knows it feels like any other gemstone. He prefers the touch of Alauddin’s hands, even if they’ve been rendered calloused by a lifetime of battle.

“The mountain of light, hmm?” Alauddin holds the diamond up until it captures the torchlight. Sparkly beams refract around his private chambers, momentarily blinding Malik. “How interesting.” 

Alauddin proceeds to the Kohinoor onto his bed where it lands with a muffled thud beside other valuable items that Malik has recently acquired. He doesn’t even look at the diamond as he throws it. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Malik. 

“Oh, hazar-dinari, hazar-dinari, hazar-dinari,” Alauddin says, in an almost sing-song sort of tone, “Why do I feel like that epithet undervalues you?” 

“Well,” Malik replies, “for one thing, you know you didn’t pay a thousand dinars for me.” 

No one ever had. He’s not entirely sure what his master in Khambhat had invested in him, although it had probably involved the exchange of agate or carnelian. Maybe even rubies. Before _that_ exchange, he’d been a bit of human detritus on the world stage. His ancestors’ lives had probably been uprooted by the Mongolian khans of the northern steppes, and he had been a seed carried along by the wind. 

Here, with Alauddin, he has roots. No matter how far afield Malik went, this place remains his foundation. 

“What if you got a new nickname that lists all the things you’ve won for me?” Alauddin lies down on his bed and rambles off a long list of objects; elephants, horses, pearls, jewels, gold. He recalls the exact amounts for each, and strings them together into a long, long epithet. 

“If that became my official title would take a great while to announce me anywhere,” Malik says, looking down at Alauddin’s prone form. “It’s been hard enough to adjust to hazar-dinari.” The nickname is a new one, albeit nicer than other things he’s been called.

“No, no, it’s too short. I should have added in the cities you’ve conquered for me as well.” He raises his leg and prods Malik in the hip. Message received, Malik lies down in the bed next to his Sultan. 

Alauddin is lifting the Kohinoor up above the two of them. It sparkles like a star that’s about to crash onto the earth. 

“Doesn’t it feel like holding all of creation in your hand?” Malik asks. 

“What does that make you, then, Malik?” Alauddin sets the diamond aside, once more. “You held it first. Does that make you greater than the entire world?” He grabs on tight to Malik’s wrist, and his fingers are cold from the diamond. 

“No, since the world has yet to be conquered in full.” 

“True, true.” Now Alauddin is stroking the side of Malik’s face, lingering over a new scar from a wound that scabbed badly. “Where would you go next?”

“Past the Deccan,” Malik says quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. He’s already begun to gather intelligence about the place. “From what I’ve heard there are some cities wealthier than all your other cities combined.” 

Alauddin hisses in a way that lets Malik know he’s displeased but not _quite_ murderous. His hand lands on the top of Malik’s head and pulls at his hair hard enough to sting. 

“You keep wanting to go even further, hmm? One would think you want to run away from me, hazar-dinari.” 

“Never.” _Never._

Malik looks Alauddin right in the eye, full of the kind of insolence that gets some men jailed for years. The sultan hears protestations of fealty every day. Malik expresses his love by rewriting the borders of Alauddin’s empire. He reworks trade routes so they deliver riches to Delhi the way blood returns to the heart. 

“The whole world must covet you by now,” Alauddin says, loosening his grip. This disappoints Malik. 

“But you’re the one that has me.” 

“Do I?” In a lesser man, Alauddin would sound like he’s sulking. “Soon all those cities past the Deccan will have you.” 

“Forgive me but you misspoke.” Malik can’t hide his smile. “Soon I will have those cities _for_ you.” 

“Stop smiling.” Alauddin pokes his fingers into Malik’s dimples and forces him to make a scowl. “You realize I could order you to stay. Forever.” 

“You could.” 

“I can also order your complete attention right now. Or forever, if it comes to that.” Alauddin pulls his hand away, and then kisses Malik before he can say anything.

Alauddin’s lips taste like saffron tonight. Malik shuts his eyes and tries to absorb this exact sensation into his body. He wants to pore over this memory during all the inevitably long, boring days of his upcoming trek and siege. Malik expects Alauddin’s arms to ensnare him. He doesn’t expect to be maneuvered on top of Alauddin. Still, Malik adjusts to this the way he adjusts to the shifting tides of any battle. He doesn't make a comment on how unusual this is. Naming this reversal of the usual order would turn Alauddin’s desire to ash. 

He rocks his hips against the sultan, watching his face grow tense with pleasure. Alauddin is a man like any other. If anything, his appetites are much more pronounced. When Malik reaches into Alauddin’s clothes to stroke him, though, he always looks somewhat startled by his own reaction. Malik’s hands are as clever as the rest of him, and he knows how to heighten and delay satisfaction all at once. Alauddin will never beg, but that’s almost beside the point. He can- and does- shudder with ravenous need. 

“You always make this into such an _ordeal_ ,” Alauddin says. 

“The sultan could always order me to go faster,” Malik points out. 

In response, Alauddin wraps his arms around Malik and rolls him over. Soon after, the sultan is reaching for the oil. “I feel like punishing you right back.”

“Are you displeased with me?” Malik asks, unconcerned. 

“Not particularly. Sure, you went back on your promise. You no longer have the advantage of a humble reputation. Our enemies know to fear you and they send out their best generals and warriors. Then again, their best generals and warriors just end up being defeated by someone they know I’ve fucked.” He spreads Malik’s legs up and out, until they come to rest on Alauddin’s shoulders. The rest of his tirade sounds a bit strangled but he pushes through it. “Each accomplishment is more impressive than the last. No one mocks you anymore. Now everyone wants you.” 

He slides his cock into Malik then, and it’s an ungentle process. Malik’s body welcomes the roughness the same way he welcomes the tide turning in his favor during battle. 

“You’re the only one that has me.” 

“Say it again.”

Malik has said this thousands of times, but he’ll say it a thousand times more. He says it with words, he says it by biting Alauddin’s lower lip, he says it with the way he arches his back. Malik has been to dozens of kingdoms now, but so many of them seal vows with blood. He remembers this when he tastes iron on Alauddin’s tongue. 

“I don’t believe you,” Alauddin gasps. Though assassination attempts had weakened him, they were both warriors, still. They goad each other on into a punishing rhythm that robs them both of speech. The look on Alauddin’s face pins Malik down far more his touch. 

They slump together after they finish, sweat-soaked and breathing heavily. Malik is eyeing the treasures he brought home, assuming that Alauddin is doing the same. 

Instead he catches the sultan staring at Malik. With a mighty sigh, Alauddin twists them around. Now he’s on his back with Malik lying on top of him. 

“I don't understand you anymore,” he says, his hands cupping Malik’s face. Once could almost mistake that touch for gentleness. Maybe it even is. “Once, I thought I knew you perfectly. Now tales of your genius find their way back to me and I wonder if I ever knew you at all.”

“We’ve fought side-by-side,” Malik points out, turning to kiss Alauddin’s fingers. 

“That’s when you’re the furthest away. I don’t think plain lust is a match for battle lust. Trying to chain you down these days is like trying to chain light from that diamond.”

Malik has to admit that all of Alauddin’s accusations are true. 

His sultan’s jealous obsessions have always been like a thirst that could not be satisfied. He’d also never expected to be the target of one. 

His heart beats so fast that Alauddin must be feeling it. Malik smashes their lips together. It’s a wild, ferocious thing. It also contains no echoes of the battlefield. When he pulls back, he smirks at the look in Alauddin’s eyes. 

“I promise- _promise_ \- you that no enemy generals experience anything like that from me.” He kisses Alauddin again, knowing that it won’t be enough. Moments of satisfaction tend to spur Alauddin on to new heights of envy. 

Alauddin lifts Malik’s up by the hips. Malik groans as he’s filled with Alauddin’s cock. He rocks his hips, taking his sultan in further, deeper. 

“No one else makes me like this either,” he murmurs, watching as desire and covetousness war in Alauddin’s eyes. 

Alauddin’s hands encircle Malik’s throat. His grip remains light as Malik sways up and down, up and down. 

“Is that so? Then I will remember all of this when you’re far from me and all the world sings your praises.” 

Maybe someday they will both be satisfied. For now, though, this is more than enough.


End file.
